Chewed-Up
A poem by Kimberly Peterson

Chewed-Up

With flat-footed power and toes-down brakes,
my oldest son scoots on a red plastic motorcycle
along St. Lawrence River pathways. Pregnant
with his brother, I trudge behind.

Past the phantom pulp and paper mill.
It no longer spews sulfur stench
into this town nicknamed “armpit.”

Grandpa died working
as a night watchman after the mill
smoked him out. Sixty-two. Lung cancer.

Past limestone canals devoured by purple loosestrife
crumbling into stagnant water while hand-cranked
gears and O-ring moorings rust.

Papère worked these locks
that bypassed Long Sault Rapids
until he died. Heart attack. Fifty.
Left wife and twelve kids
to (not so) wel-fare.

We reach Saunders Hydro Dam.
My parents married in boom-times
when blasting the river and flooding
nine hamlets brought prosperity.
No high paying jobs now.

I’m drenched in the stench
of this dirty old town. *
Dusted in the same limestone
as the chewed-up men it breeds.

When the tinge of contractions begins
I carry ride toy and oldest son home.
Born and unborn kick in protest.

Keep kicking boys, all the way out of this town.

* Dirty Old Town is a song written by Ewan MacColl (1949)

About the Author:

Kimberly Peterson began her nursing career caring for people who were chronically ill and/or dying. Rich loam for a budding poet. After several unfortunate promotions, she spent much of her time writing dry policies. Once rescued by retirement, Kim applied her passion for precise language to verse. Her favourite website remains Merriam-Webster.com.

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